Like a Roman Despot of Old the Mob delights to be flattered. No praise is too fulsome for it to swallow. Thus it is deified by its cunning courtiers, who know all the time (in their hearts) that it is a foul and half-insane monster. Thus its favorites are only those who can complacently sink their own individuality and orate before it the acceptable things that its madness craves for. Its murderous, irrational nature augurs its own slavery. How easy it is to be soothed by slippery tongues and its hatreds flamed by plastic aristocrats cannot be overmuch stated. It vigorously quaffs down the Delectable Lies of Government before it shares amongst itself the dreg-ideology of to-day. Its ‘Resistance’ is a byword for failure and a self-doomed generation of Catalines and would-be Sallusts without Caesars. There cannot be a single Count Richelieu counted among its effervescent putridity.

Those that separate from this teeming mass of psychic madness and repugnant cowardice find themselves in a terrible quagmire of being rejected by these animal-slaves (are they any better than animals?), and understanding the Plastocracy hates and discounts their very existence, they seek, unconsciously, the Higher Law, that Rule of Bone.

What other route can one march down before his resentment and wrath boils and bubbles forth in a scorching display of fulgent explosivity? How much can a man endure before he takes matters into his own hands?